


Rainfall Skies

by GothMoth



Series: Ectobers Ectoplasmic Splatters [42]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothMoth/pseuds/GothMoth
Summary: Rain is a wonderful thing and there’s a certain wonderful magic about it. Especially for those who need a little water to rejuvenate their heart, soul, and mind.Danny loves the rain.
Series: Ectobers Ectoplasmic Splatters [42]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1511411
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	Rainfall Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Ectober 2020 Day 27: Cloud

Danny walks with his head tilted skyward, letting the rain splash and bounce off his face. It was a nice feeling and it made the world around him smell clean and clear. Sure there was the faint hint of lime from all the ectoplasm contaminated water that’s evaporated up into the thick swirling clouds, but he finds he doesn’t particularly mind nor care. If anything it made the rain all the sweeter, making it a more vibrant gem-like blue and the droplets taste like sugar water on his tongue. 

He liked the rain, it never rained in the Ghost Zone and ghosts would instinctively go intangible to let earths rain simply pass through their bodies. He always suppressed that urge and impulse. 

Stopping at a stoplight and staring up unblinking, the water getting in his eyes hardly bothers him. In fact, he hardly notices in the slightest. Staring up, it can almost be like the world around him has fallen away, leaving just him and the patter of the rain. The clouds move slowly, sluggishly, almost as if still. He finds he appreciates the lack of wind. Rain is better when it’s just rain, no thunder nor lightning nor wind. Just rain in its purest simplest form. Unchanged and consistently pattering down; and the clouds are dark enough that it gives off the illusion of nighttime, he can almost imagine the stars beyond the dark heavy cover of clouds. Like the stars are just resting on top of the clouds as if they’re a mattress. 

Shaking his head and looking to the ground as the streetlight beeps signalling it’s time to cross, watching his old worn-out shoes splash into the small vibrating puddles. Watching the neon green drip off him and dilute into those puddles. He knows the rain’s not doing much to clean him off, he can’t say he really cares. Instead, he’s just enjoying the heavy feeling of being soaked to the bone. The rain lets him imagine that it’s only water to blame for that wetness. 

He knows many people like to say that rain is the sky crying, in a way he understands how and why the sky might cry for him. But he likes to think the sky is laughing and dancing so much it can’t help but splatter some of its water down. Chuckling as he jumps a bit to splash in a puddle, twirling around and sticking out his arms. Rain was a happy thing, made the world feel like it was lost in time. Like the whole world was content to just lose itself for a while in the feeling of clean water and the music it makes upon the ground. 

Spinning a bit more before deciding to walk backwards and watch the sky some more, humming a soft tune, “the rain falls gently above our heads, reminding us that we aren’t dead”. And that, that probably says a lot about how he feels. 

It only rained in the land of the living, and he was part of it. The rain was his to experience and to experience with the rest of humanity. The rain danced and sang with life, a gift of the clouds. And it danced and bounced and soaked his skin without fail, like it was telling him he was just as alive and deserving of the thing that kept the earth alive and growing. Nothing could live without water after all, not even him. 

Cupping his hands to pool some of the rain, watching it slowly build up and faintly reflect him back at himself. Green-tinted water dripping from his hair into the puddle forming, ah he should at least attempt to get clean. Once he feels he’s built up enough he splashes it on his face. Shaking his hands off and hair side to side, he doesn’t need to look to see the green splattering the ground like it was part of the rain itself. At least the green wasn’t his own, mostly. 

Some ghosts were just vicious and required viciousness in return. He appreciates the cleansing rain as a reprieve from that. Something to clean him inside and out. Left him with the feeling of contentment and whimsy. Even a bit of a feeling of a complete lack of feeling. As if his mind and body were still, fresh, and without care. It was nice when he spent so much of his time and energy caring and hurting and fighting. And the rain kept the ghosts away, none wanting to fight in the pouring down water. It really was a reprieve from everything. Rain washed away cares or worries, washed away time and space, washed away sounds and aches. It was nice. It was comfy. It was freedom in a way. 

Though he knows he has to go home soon. He finds he can’t bring himself to mind that. He’ll get there. Eventually. In the meantime, the rain will wash away what of the red and green it can, the overworked muscles and broken bones, clean out the cuts and scrapes. And when he gets where he’s going, maybe all they’ll see is the son soaked wet to the bone and not the soldier returning home from the battlefield. For now, he tilts his head back and opens his mouth. Smiling almost child-like and playfully at the gurgling pattering sounds that makes inside his throat. Like catching snowflakes on his tongue, it made him feel young and new like a young babe; in a way the stars just couldn’t anymore. As those stars carried thoughts of the childhood dream that was so very far out of reach. The stars hurt like they were as sharp as they looked on a clear night sky sometimes, the rain was always soft and whipped away everything else. He was a canvas freshly painted red and green, the rainwater splashing it off before its had a chance to dry. The canvas still gets stained of course, but it feels less permanent and noticeable. Like the sky is telling him ‘hey, you have the chance to paint yourself with more colours than just the blood of the living and dead’. That was something of a lie of course, but the rain made him believe it for a while. And that was as strong and heavy a support as the rain made his clothing feel. 

Plus, if you have to cry then do it in the rain, no one will notice. Maybe not even you. 

His body doesn’t feel in the mood for that though, too tired and worn to muster that kind of effort. Crying was heavy and hard, dancing and splashing was light as air. He twirls a little more, soaked fabric slapping against his scarred torso; not that he notices. The rain made the gouged in ones feel filled in again. The raised jagged ones, smooth. Any discolouration simply no longer mattered, the sun may show them bright but the rain blurs. It is sweet and he is alright. 

Everything is alright. 

Right here. Right now. Because the rain is free and sweet and gentle and everything. Releasing its wet weight upon the world and making his drip off him in kind. Weight those clouds have gained from all the earthly water it’s taken in. Water with all its pollutants and spilled blood and swimming life and long drowned dead. No different than him. A little halfa absorbing the world’s violence and intolerance and hatred and pain. The clouds sending down their cleaned refreshing rains, though tainted too. Just like the hope he hopes he splashes onto others. 

Stopping in front of his house and staring at the sign, sticking his hands in his pockets and forcing back up his guards and paranoias. Yet still, even the harsh sign that lit up his strange home was seen softened by the rain. Making it seem more as if it glowed faintly rather than shone brightly. It felt more like returning to a comforting cup of hot chocolate from that brand you grew up with, rather than the place of cold scientific minds and where he and his dreams died. 

He sends a small fleeting look to the rain thick clouds, wishing he could stay bathed in them for longer. But time, though it feels unreal in the presence of rain, waits for no man. Especially not him. 

Pushing in the door, he’s hardly surprised to be met with his mother's only vaguely shocked words, “Danny, you’re _soaked_ and why are you dripping slightly green”. Like usual, she doesn’t sound like she expects an answer from him. 

He shrugs loosely, the rains calm still sticking with him, “rain. Ghost rain”, might as well take a bit more of a reprieve from the rain and pass the blame in a sense. She hums and doesn’t question him as he waves and heads up to his room. 

Stripping off his soaked clothes and watching the rain patter against the window and fall through the air to hit the ground below. It’s muffled and less real this way, but it’s still nice. 

It’s nice too, hearing the rain tinking on the roof as he showers. The waterfall of a shower was always artificial in a way that the rain simply didn’t even know how to be. He chooses to lay naked on the floor and just _listen_ for a while before getting up to head to bed. Where he’ll wrap himself in blankets stained faintly green and red and lay his head down on a pillow too old to give much support or comfort. He’ll watch the rain fall through the window, watch it pool a little in the cracks and on the ledge. And then he’ll sleep, and it’ll be sun in the morning and he’ll struggle through school and fight another fight, as if tonight and it’s rain never happened. 

It’s alright. 

He’s alright. 

He doesn’t mind. 

There’ll be rain again some other day. Some other time. He’ll rest again then. 

**End.**


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